


Prompt No.65: Passing

by Anythingtoasted



Series: 100Fics [21]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 01:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: No.65: Passing</p>
<p>Characters: Remus Lupin, Sirius Black</p>
<p>Pairing: Remus/Sirius</p>
<p>Era: Wartime</p>
<p>He’d said he’d come back in the morning, so Sirius shouldn’t really have looked as surprised as he did to find him standing on the doorstep at seven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prompt No.65: Passing

He’d said he’d come back in the morning, so Sirius shouldn’t really have looked as surprised as he did to find him standing on the doorstep at seven.

They stood parallel for a moment before Sirius let him in; neither said a word. Remus passed him quietly, afraid to touch an object in the flat, for fear they would stick to him, not let him go. He went straight to the bookcase and started to pick through the volumes, deciding which were his, leaving those they’d bought together. Sirius followed him in quietly and sat on the sofa, watching. He coughed gently after a minute or so.

“Can I keep _Ulysses?_ I haven’t finished it.” 

Remus didn’t turn. He laughed, but it was dry. “You’re never going to finish it. You’ve been ‘reading it’ since sixth year.”

Sirius said nothing, only murmured something unintelligible. Remus kept piling the books into a carpetbag borrowed from Lily; he hadn’t told her the reason for his borrowing it. He doubted she’d have lent it to him, if he had.

 Sirius sat behind him with his hands on his knees, watching. Remus dropped ‘ _Ulysses’_  into the bag without hesitation, feeling cruel, even though Sirius _would_ never finish it, had been intending to finish it for so long now and never made any real effort. He knew him well enough to know it would never get read, but still he felt petty to point it out. The air was delicate between them; he was sure he could make it snap.

He scanned the bookcase one last time for stragglers, picked up the carpetbag and hefted it over one shoulder. He didn’t spare Sirius, immobile on the sofa, a glance as he walked into the bathroom. He crashed in, stood over the sink and took his toothbrush in one hand, holding it in his fist for a moment, trying to figure out if anything else here was worth taking; a half-empty toothpaste tube, shaving cream (Sirius’, though he’d often borrowed it), soap. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and the face that flashed past was tired, bloodless, dark under the eyes, creased in the middle. He was barely twenty, but he looked _old._ Remus pushed the toothbrush into his bag with his fist, and shoved his way out of the bathroom. Sirius was still on the sofa when he passed, and went into the bedroom.

Cleaning out the bedroom was relatively easy; his copy of ‘ _The Great Gatsby’_ lay still on the table at his side of the bed; he picked it up. Nothing else was worth bothering with, really. Everything in the bedroom, a mess as it was, was Sirius’, but for a few clothes that Remus didn’t mind leaving; he just wanted to get this over with. He dropped the book into his bag, left the room hurriedly, went into the living room and stopped.

The kitchen was left; an archway led to the tiny cooking-space, its countertops in cheap plastic that imitated wood, the cupboards creaky, hanging off at their hinges when they opened, the fridge a great white slab in the corner of the room. The kitchen table sat slightly askew from their fight the day before. Remus, going in, breathed in deeply; he’d been saving this place for last.

Not because this was where they’d fought, though they _had_ fought, and _hard,_ he thought, laying a hand on the countertop and frowning when his palm picked up countless crumbs from the surface.  No, not because of that.

He stood in front of the kitchen sink and pretended not to hear Sirius’ slow, thick breaths from the other room.

This was where they’d loved. It was hard to ignore; the notes on the fridge they’d scribbled to one another, bunched together under a Dracula magnet from when they and the other boys had visited Whitby when school ended. The chair where Sirius had knelt in front of him, and put a hand in his hair, and shuddered and breathed, _I don’t understand this, Moons. I don’t know what’s going on. What’s happening to me, I._ And had gulped another breath and kissed him hesitantly, as if pressing against the mouth of a beast who might bite off his head. And Remus, laughing, had kissed him back.

A hundred dinners; a hundred fights; a hundred thousand cups of tea. Parties and tears and drinks and loneliness; and reunion. Remus had spent days here, sitting at the table, staring at the pages of a book he was no longer reading because Sirius hadn’t come home. He had fallen upon him at the door in a triumphant, exhausted return more times than he could recall.

He looked around for something to take, but nothing struck him.

He’d come here with a mind to get it over with; to make the break, to be cruel, to separate them from one another once and for all. But nothing, no keepsake, was enough to epitomise the world they had built together in this place. He couldn’t condense it down, couldn’t take it as an object, and own it, and eventually be done with it. That was too simple. It was bigger, greater than he had anticipated, and now that it was over it was too big, even, for Lily’s bottomless bag.

He touched a hand to his mouth.

From the other room, Sirius sobbed; Remus felt embarrassed. He left the kitchen alone with itself; with the images of them and their friends crawling from surface to surface.

“Sirius?” He called softly, regretting it as soon the sound was made. He hoped Sirius hadn’t heard; it appeared that he hadn’t. There was no reply.

Remus nodded slowly to himself and touched the kitchen side once more. Scolding himself for his own bleeding heart, he reached into the bag and took out the copy of _Ulysses_ which would forever go unread.

He laid it quietly on the side. He went to the door. He left. 


End file.
